The Kingship Competition
by jaqueline-littlebird
Summary: First Movie and Avengers AU. Odin feels his spleep approaching. He sends Thor and Loki both to Midgard, to rule a country each. The one who performs better should then rule in Asgard while he takes his nap. Which countries will they choose, and will things go as smoothly as princes of the Realm Eternal can expect? (Hint: no.)
1. The Allfather is tired

A/N: Written for a prompt on Norsekink Livejournal. Thanks to Oneiriad for connecting Odin to some royal families on Earth.

disclaimer: Marvel's, not mine. No money made.

suggested music: "Princes of the Universe" by Queen

* * *

**The Kingship Competition**

Asgard, The Citadel

„My sons", the Allfather spoke mildly. „The Odinsleep comes upon me." Seeing Thor twitch to speak up, he raised a hand to stall. „Worry not. There is time enough to prepare. However, those preparations need to start now. Thor!" he addressed his elder son. „You are my firstborn. The throne is yours by right."

Out of the corner of his eye, the old god saw his younger, adopted son fidget. Of course Loki knew Thor was not fit for the throne yet. That boy was so clever and observant.

„However, Thor, we need to take special precautions this time. This sleep may last longer than usual, for I feel weary. Stabilizing the roots of the World Tree after your fight with Nidhögg took a toll on my powers, and sorting out things after your skirmish in Thrymheim strained them further. So I need to plan well ahead and leave the kingdom in the best of hands, for more than the usual few days."

Loki let out a breath he had not known he had been holding. So their father was aware of Thor's shortcomings and would put their mother on the throne. All would be well. No need to execute that risky plan with the Jötnar he had concocted as a last resort.

The younger prince could handle a day or three of his brother's reign – had done so before, entertaining Thor with hunts and tournaments while fending off all those traders, courtiers and ambassadors who'd try to get favourable agreements out of the interim king which could have taken Odin years to revoke afterwards. But weeks or – Norns forbid – months with Thor on the throne? He'd start a war on some unfortunates just out of boredom, and execute it poorly … Like that skirmish against some renegade dwarves in their mine when Thor had been in such a hurry to leave they did not pack lamps or torches …

„I have therefore decided to test you." The Allfather continued, looking at Thor still. „Both of you, my sons." His eye turned to Loki, who immediately squirmed. „I will send you to Midgard. Each of you may choose a country there and prove yourself to be a good king. You will have some years – time passes faster in that realm, as you know."

„Father! What is the meaning of this?" Thor interrupted. „Am I not your heir? Am I not the mightiest warrior in the realms, proven in battle over and over again?"

„You are, my son." Odin cut in. „And indeed you have held the throne before, for short interim reigns, and it worked _well._" The Allfather closed his eye for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose. „However, your brother is just a year younger, and this just another interim reign. It would be unfair not to consider him. And since when has a challenge ever deterred you?"

Loki stood mouth-agape, unsteady on his feet. Was his father seriously considering him? Or just trying to push Thor to improve himself through the challenge? Thor looked deflated only for a moment.

„Of course, father, I'm up to the challenge. Though it's a bit unfair for poor Loki here; dealing with matters of state is just not his area of expertise. Not my fault, for certain – I've been doing my best to drag him away from the books and into combat training." For emphasis, Thor punched his brother in the upper arm.

„Too kind of you, brother. I shall do my best nonetheless." Loki said bitterly, rubbing his arm where Thor had hit. He had differring ideas about what a king needed to know, and had equally tried to entice his brother to take an interest in those, with even poorer success. The last time Loki had tried to get Thor to read a law book, he'd had to retrieve that book from a bed of petunia, notify a craftsman to repair the window, and pay compensation to the gardener hit.

„That is settled, then." Odin concluded. „Time to set up the gameboard, so to speak. Thor, which country would you like to rule? And mind you, some of the mortals' countries are off limits, that is: those which are ruled by kings or queens related to us: Denmark, Norway and Great Britain, currently. You will not take over any of those, and treat their rulers with respect."

Both princes nodded. Thor in particular remembered his mortal half-brothers Skjöldr and Yngvi fondly, as well as some of their friends and numerous offspring. Too bad he hadn't been there to join in on little Beowulf's dragon hunt, but they'd meet again in Valhalla one day.

Loki, too, remembered their prolific human kin with their mayfly lifespans, though less fondly. Those illoyal wretches, greedy for taxes and stingy with wergild for generations, had at some point decided to cut family ties in favour of converting to some new religion that would facilitate trade with some countries further south. For entertainment, Loki had told one of the proselytizing priests that his higher-ups in Rome had declared bathing a sin, since it was part of the capital sin of vanity – only to learn later that indeed they had. He'd not visited that sorry planet for some centuries thereafter.

Back to topic, Thor boomed: „I will of course take the mightiest country, with the most powerful warriors."

„That would be the United States of America." Odin supplied. „Know that they are not currently a kingdom. Would you like to reconsider?"

„No, father, all the better!" Thor enthused. „If they have no king, they are in dire need of one. I will take them in hand and lead them into glorious battle!"

Odin nodded, a bit tiredly. „And you Loki? What is your choice?"

The younger prince regrettet fiercely not having kept up closely with politics on Midgard. He knew their largest empire had recently crumbled and split into smaller states, as had some allied countries on the same land-mass, but little beyond that. Since Earthlings were not involved in inter-realm political squabbles yet, he usually focused on inventions during his infrequent visits (unless a man or woman would catch his eye). They had made impressive progress there.

Loki hated being caught uninformed, but his father was waiting. „A good king can work with whatever the Norns would hand to him." he finally said. „Assign me to some small land, father, a powerless place where people live in poverty, and I promise to improve their livelihoods." He balled a fist to his chest and bowed, to hide his shame at being unable to provide such a country's name.

Odin contemplated this request for a moment, while Thor chuckled, apparently amused by such foolishness.

„Very well." the Allfather said at length. „I'll let you choose from these: _Cortezuela_, located on that double-continent that stretches on both their hemispheres, the northern part of which you may remember as Vinland. It is there that your brother's chosen land lies. Cortezuela meanwhile lies further south. It has some natural resources, namely copper and emeralds, and its people grow this coca plant you brought from your vacation thereabouts some time ago, which I found rather inspiring. Next, I'd offer you _Rongoroa_, a volcanic island near their equator, not known for anything so far. _Simba-Msitu_ is on the southern hemisphere. They grow mangoes and coffee for export and receive visitors for hunts, or merely to _watch _the wild animals. The mortals have such odd pastimes. _Taklamastan_ is in the center of their greatest landmass; a desert mostly, but rich in natural gas, which the mortals use for heating. They seem to have some conflict over worshipping there. Lastly, there is _Transdacia_,a little to the south and east from where our kin live, a country of fields and forests where they grow root vegetables and swine. Which is it, my son?"

Loki's thoughts spun feverishly. Rongoroa was likely too hot. For some reason, he did not tolerate a hot climate well. A pity, since as the god of fire and earthquakes, he could have taken over a volcanic island country fairly easily.

Simba-Msitu was probably too hot as well, if they grew mangoes there. He did like the fruit; he remembered them from that campaign long ago when he and his brother had conquered cities in the Indus valley and Thor had learned to ride an elephant. That place had been a baking oven as well, and he had retired to the northern mountain range as soon as he'd had organized Thor's army and gotten them properly provisioned.

Of Taklamastan he held no fond memories from the time the Yellow Emperor's minions had chased him through there when he had stolen the secret of the tea plant.

Cortezuela sounded tempting, but might be too close to Thor's place and in his realm of interest. Last Loki had been in New York (and he had been pleasantly surprised by the invention of the StarkPhone), there had been some news buzz about a war on herbs. Thor's future subjects were certainly averse to anybody having fun. He wondered how long until they'd legislate against fatty food, or sugary softdrinks.

By process of elimination, that left Transdacia, and he said so. Thor patted his shoulder (which hurt), amusedly and pityingly.

* * *

Both princes gone, Odin descended to the weapons vault to seal the hidden path to Jotunheim there. Who knew the boy could find such things, and travel between the realms all by his own power, without the bifröst or other artifacts, like nobody had ever done before?

Yes, watching his younger son from Hlidskjalf every time Heimdall announced he had concealed himself from the gatekeeper's view had been one of Odin's better ideas, if he did say so himself. And why was there a portal to Jotunheim in the weapons vault of all places? Odin pondered.

His own mother Bestla had been a giantess, that much was known. She had been a sorceress; his own magic, so rare in male Aesir, came from her side of the family. A pity he had never known her. Shortly after his birth, queen-consort Bestla had left Asgard in a fit of rage, after a none too happy marriage (or captivity?).

Had she planned to take some artifacts with her? And where had she gone anyway? Growing up, Odin had always learned of his mother as an Earth Giantess of Utgard – a well respected race that sometimes mingled with the Aesir and Vanir. (Loki's current love interest was one of them as well, a cocky shapeshifting witch named Angrboda, whom Frigga deemed decidedly unfit for court.)

But then, in all his travels through that realm, he had never heard word of his mother. Now he wondered. Could she maybe … Was he even possibly blood-related to Loki after all? Quite unthinkable. Nobody even knew whether Aesir _could _interbreed with Frost Giants. That was the main reason the Allfather tolerated Loki's dalliance with his Angrboda. The boy – young man now, really – would want a family one day. Nobody knew whether he could possibly father a child with an Asynja; with a giantess, there should be no problem.

Only in case that child would turn out blue, then the dreaded explanations would be due. As they had really been for quite some time. Or at least Frigga had said so. But not before this Odinsleep, no. Things could wait at least a little while longer. The Allfather felt so very tired.


	2. history of Transdacia

suggested music: "Bubamara" from the Black Cat White Cat soundtrack

* * *

Midgard, Transdacia, Doomheim

The Principality of Transdacia was a derelict place. A small country with less than a million citizens, the younger of whom usually left home with forged Romanian passports to work in the European Union, commonly as prostitutes, burglars, or copper&scrap metal thieves.

Centuries earlier, Dragan the Divider had split off the country from his kingdom of Latveria to give it to a younger son. Interesting times had followed. Asgard would enjoy some of the local heroes' tales.

There was the story of Béla Bushybeard, who had been decapitated for being late on the battlefield on the king of Hungary's behest, his hairyness forcing the executioner to try chopping from either side and re-sharpen the axe thrice.

Another reknowned voivode of Transdacia was Radu the Well-Spoken, who had refused to swear fealty to the caliph and had subsequently had his tongue cut out.

Then there was Hubert the Woodsman, who had avoided taking sides in the Thirty Years War by being out hunting in the forest any time anyone asked for his allegiance. He was also said to have fathered many a future subject with herdswomen and dairymaids. His famous hunting trophy gallery of jackelopes had much later been seized by the Nazis and lost in the comotion of WW2.

The Thirty Years War that had laid waste to so much of Europe had also caused the rise of the Latverian Orthodox Church, still the predominant denomination here, allowing the locals not having to choose between catholicism and protestantism. The distinguishing feature of this church was apparently the rejection of bread and wine at mass, since handing out such delicacies might lure the dead back from their graves to taste them once again.

The last voivode of Transdacia had been one Luitpold the Pale, who had spent all the country's wealth and credit on building the fairytale-inspired fancy castle of Neudoomstein, only to lock himself in the keep then, unsuccessfully trying to gain superpowers by living solely on bats' blood.

After the lunatic's death, the country should have fallen back to the Latverian crown, but, considering the pile of debts that came with it, then-king of Latveria Franzl the Sly had declined and granted Transdacia eternal independence.

* * *

In the capital city, Doomheim, Loki was sitting in Goran's Internet Café, a shabby place with bare concrete walls, on the ground floor of a decrepit multi-storey appartment building, still advertised as „The Kombinat Workers' Cultural Meeting Hall" on the outside (missing two letters, though).

The coffee was much better than the building's looks, but his internet research had not proved very fruitful so far. As amusing as the place's historic anecdotes were to an Asgardian, information about natural resources, the economy, or general knowledge about his new kingdom were sparse, and often hardly believeable.

According to one site, for instance, famous local dishes included rutabaga marmelade, a sausage-like thing called „bratwurstersatz" made from sawdust and horsebeans, soups based on stale rye bread, and potato peels fried in industrial grease.

A Soviet-built nuclear power plant (whatever that was) had never been finished, the tractor factory had gone bankrupt, and even the Research Institute for the Physics of the Paranormal had been closed.

The local library he had consulted earlier had of course not been any more helpful, mostly comprising biographies of people Loki had never heard of, like one lady Anna Karenina, or the Karamazov brothers, as well as repair manuals for tractor engines, and instructions on how to apply for kosmonaut training. At least the librarian had pointed him to this café and modern 'online search'.

Goodness, who would have thought the internet could gain importance so quickly? Had they not barely invented it the last time he'd been around? In Asgard, the transportation committee were still in dispute over whether to install a teleportation device between observatory and citadel – half a millennium after the initial proposal.

Surreptitiously, the god watched his fellow patrons in the cafe. Next to him, a slender young man in wifebeater shirt and sweatpants was chatting with some buddies from his former handball club in Germany, asking whether they could arrange a professional contract for him, or any kind of job.

A bit further on, an extended family were trying to marry off their eldest daughter or granddaughter, respectively, magic-mirror-talking ('skyping') with a used car salesman in Austria. The bride looked to be sixteen at most, if Loki could judge his mortals, prettied up like a hooker with false fingernails, half a pound of make-up and her long dark curly hair sprayed up into a mop. She was also none too slender. Her outcry upon seeing her intended, though („He's so faaaat!") implied to Loki that the groom to be would outdo Volstagg by an order of magnitude. The family elders ignored her and insisted that she was a virgin and a good cook and so worth at least a minivan.

Oh well, thought Loki with a sigh. The long game then. He'd have to find out the lay of the land, talk to people, get in touch. Convince them to tell him how everything worked, whom to meet, and who was important. On Nidavellir, he'd spent decades doing this, and on Svartalfheim some years. Hopefully, this would not take as long.


	3. What's in the News

disclaimer: Marvel Comic charactes are still Marvel's. President Jimmy Dale is from the movie "Mars Attacks", his speech also liftet there.

suggested music: "In my Sword I Trust" by Ensiferum; "Ja Volim te Jos" from the Black Cat White Cat soundtrack

* * *

Meanwhile in Washington DC, Darcy Lewis, White House intern, had just finished her shift, serving coffee to the gaggle of scientists president Dale was to interview about SHIELD's new project for some wormhole bridge or whatnot. Who cared? Associating with nerds was a bad career move, always.

Besides, they were either dull and boring (What self-respecting woman would be seen in public unstyled like that mousy Dr Foster?), or plain ridiculous.

Another minute of Dr Don Blake's blather about aliens, and she would have bent over laughing her guts out. „We know they're extremely advanced technologically, which suggests - very rightfully so - that they're peaceful. An advanced civilization, by definition, is not barbaric." Snort. Any student of politics knew better.

And that Selvig man from Tønsberg, Finland (or was it Denmark, or Hungary?), with his so-called archeological finds from outer space? No, better never to be in connection with such weirdos, thank you very much.

The weather outside was abominable, dark clouds swirling, maybe a very early blizzard in the making. The young woman drew her hood tighter and hurried across the grounds. Lightning struck nearby. Darcy Lewis was flung through the air, half-stunned, breath knocked out of her. When she stumbled to her feet, a blond beefcake dressed for Comic Con advanced towards her.

„Kneel, mortals! I am prince Thor of Asgard, and I have come burdened with glorious purpose."

Security were running towards them already, but Darcy was a tough girl. She zapped him with her tazer. The wacko laughed and zapped her back with lightning.

Darcy Lewis was no more.

* * *

In Doomheim, Transdacia, SHIELD agent Natasha Romanoff retired to her carefully debugged hotel room, closed the shutters and the drapes, and received the urgent call on her custom-made ShieldPhone (no Stark Industries components built in). Her attempts at gathering intelligence about Victor von Doom's plans in neighbouring Latveria had not been fruitful so far, so Fury yelling a bit at her was to be expected.

In came instead a live feed from SHIELD's webcam on board Airforce 1. Agent Coulson was trying to calm down the First Lady, who kept crying „Oh my god, they killed Darcy!".

Dr Blake from SHIELD's astrophysics department was sitting with the president, his young assistant (Forrest? Fothergill? Foster?) with an older man whom Natasha did not recognize, grilling him about „Asgard", „Odin" and „Valhalla". What? The White House was under attack, and these people were discussing fairytales for children? They surely weren't attacked by the Baba Yaga, were they? Next, they'd get to that fertility god with the too short hammer handle who wore drag and got his wife screwed by his uncle.

Something heavy landed on the airplane with a thunk. Lightning flashed by the windows, and the aircraft rolled in turbulences. Then, something ripped the roof right off. Dr Blake and some security people who also had unbuckled their seatbelts were sucked out into the atmosphere, flailing and screaming. A blond man with billowing red cape was walking the aisle towards the president's seat, deflecting bullets with his … hammer?

Natasha sat back and fished blindly for her emergency vodka bottle, eyes glued to the display.

She had to give president Dale credit – the man had guts. He was now speaking, performing as if on stage, with feeling, gestures and just the right timbre:

„_Why_ are you doing this? Isn't the universe big enough for both of us? What is wrong with you guy? We can work together. Why be enemies? Cause we're different? Is that why? Think of the things we could do. Think how _strong_ we could be. Earth and Asgard, together. There is nothing that we could not accomplish. Think about it! Think about it. Why destroy, when you can create? We can have it all – or we can smash it all. Why can't we forget our differences? Why can't we work things out? Thor of Asgard – why can't we all just get along?"

It even seemed to work. The blond giant hesitated.

Then, through the open roof, Natasha saw Clint's quinjet catching up, and from the left, Stark in his suit flew in, carrying Bruce Banner in his arms. Static buzz, and then the camera went off.

* * *

Loki read about his brother's quarrels in the newspaper the next day, on page 2 of international news, page 14 in total, well behind topics of more interest to the locals:

The town mayor had, after major protests, twice being beaten up by unknown assailants at night on his way home from a bar, and finding his car's tyres flattened, rescinded plans to charge fees for the public open air bath in the abandoned power plant's building pit.

Doomheim airport had been closed for a few hours, when a sniffer dog trained on explosives had made a racket at some suitcase, which proved to contain home-made black pudding. The reporter called this an entertaining diversion from the usual reasons for shut-down: power-outages and drunken pilots. Loki was glad he could teleport.

Several people had been injured by gunshots fired into the air at a wedding, leading to an editorial about the sorry state of the healthcare system since so many qualified personnel left to make more money in rich countries like Italy or Canada after studying at taxpayers' expense.

Transdacia's national soccer team had missed qualification for World Championship – again – and fired the coach.

The European Union had lowered permissible levels of mycotoxins in maize for animal fodder. A blow to exporters of maize, of course, but possible boost to domestic swine fattening farmers now able to buy cheaply. (And the 'toxic' part of it? Oh well, the mortals would know what they could take.)

A German merchant was plannning to open supermarkets in Doomheim, Doomhausen and possibly also in Doomnitz.

A flutist (?) had leaked secret documents suggesting that an organization named SHIELD was spying on everyone through cameras, by monitoring e-mail conversations, and other similar means. (That was worth looking into, Loki thought. Heimdall was a bit too powerful for his tastes; an alternative might come in handy one day.)

Princess Victoria of Latveria had been seen dancing with prince Harry of England in a club in London. (So some distant nephew was named Harry? Not the crown prince though, that would have been noted, so there must be at least one older brother. He'd have to read up on them, just in case this relative should marry to the throne of a country bordering on his own.)

The minister-president of Transdacia had apparently outperformed at bear-hunting once again and gotten a half-page picture for that, posing bare-chested with a hunting rifle.

A local businessman – incidentally the minister-president's brother in law – was to appear in court for causing a fish kill in a nearby nature reserve by dumping toxic waste in the lake there. The process was now being stalled by the prosecutor's apparent suicide, after two key witnesses had died in a car crash.

The national symphonic orchestra were on strike after not having been paid for three consecutive months.

Latveria had been disqualified from the Eurovision Song Contest for sending a singing robot. This should, supposedly, give team Transdacia a real chance, provided the Russian grandmothers would die of old age, the Fins got heatstrokes in their monster costumes, the Norwegian guy got into his puberty vocal change, and nobody understood the Transdacian text.

Two houses had caught fire from inhabitants smoking in their beds; the interior minister's niece had been elected queen of the harvest festival in her home village; a local businessman with the same family name as the fishkiller was going to sponsor the tractor race come saturday; the city was hiring a new dog-catcher; fasting two days per week could apparently help you slim down (Who would have thought?), and lady Donata the astrologist promised this was the best time of year to go out and make life-changing decisions.

What an eventful place, Loki mused. So unlike Asgard, where you had to travel to other realms once bilgesnipe-hunting and listening to Bragi's singing had lost their entertainment value.

Asgard, where Thor probably was now, if Heimdall had acted swiftly and beamed him up again. The newspaper article stated there was talk of an alien invasion, but suggested that in fact the US president's aircraft had disintegrated due to poor engineering („Nothing like the good old Tupolev"), which his people were too embarrassed to admit, and the attacker was a made-up cover story.

However, Loki concluded this was not the time to propose official diplomatic talks between Midgard and Asgard, and he'd better not mention his heritage to anyone. For more comprehensive information, he returned to the internet café and did a search. (He sorely needed to catch up on tech in any case, he noted. At least electronic devices responded to magic, and that helped a bit.)

Some hours of reviewing shaky video footage and facepalming later, the god decided it was time to acquire a false human identitiy and a fitting place of residence. That abandoned physics institute might do. It was as ugly as all the soviet-style concrete buildings, but in relatively good shape, probably due to some residual magic wards. If he could enhance those, it all might come in handy.


	4. the Physics Institute, and bats

suggested music: "Ballade von der Erweckung" by ASP

* * *

Earth, Transdacia, Doomheim - Natasha

So director Fury had assembled a team he called „The Avengers" after that spaceman's attack on the president, and Natasha was required back at headquarters to join the team. Understandable.

She was certain Victor von Doom was amassing a robot army to protect his servers, but had no proof yet. Transdacia was not a suitable operation base in any case, much less an ally. No police or army to speak of, ruled by criminals who manipulated elections, its citizens undereducated and still very much caught up in superstitions about gypsy magic and mythical creatures.

She hadn't decided yet whether the tall man with the British accent who had just moved in was a neo-pagan esoterics freak or just an ordinary pedophile looking for child prostitutes, to have come here, but that was of no consequence. Had she the time, she might have played with him a bit, for the exercise.

What bugged her was that Institute for the Physics of the Paranormal, with its immaculate windows, not flaking off paint and unbroken doors. Had Doom installed an outpost there? She decided to do a short walk and take one last look before leaving.

* * *

Midgard, Transdacia, Doomheim - Loki

The magic wards on the abandoned physics institute were stronger than Loki expected, much stronger than any mortal should be able to create. The underlying magic was Asgardian, the god recognized.

It spoke of an artifact with purpose unfulfilled, effusing its innate power trying to connect. Connect to whatever it was supposed to guard, hit, heal or confine. The sorcerer analyzed carefully. This felt like a confinement spell. Connected to the building's lesser perimeter spells of human set-up, it would not allow humanoids to enter or leave.

Not a problem for a shapeshifter.

It proved to be worth the effort. The artifact turned out to be a cylindric container the length of his forearm, crafted of crystal and eternium, engraved with runes of Asgard. The _tesseract container_, the runes stated.

Who would have thought the mythical tesseract would be on Midgard, that ancient portal-opener which had gone missing around the time of Odin's birth, according to the chronics? Or was it on the planet still? In any case, its container lay here, longing.

The two could not have been separated all that long; less than a century, he guessed. Or else humans would not have been able to handle the empty case, or work in the building around it. But the wards had strengthened recently, it seemed. That could only mean one thing: The tesseract was indeed still on Midgard, liberated from its case, now being stimulated.

That looked like a serious problem. If the tesseract was as powerful as the old volumes claimed, it could open and establish a stable portal anywhere. What if some unsuspecting mortal would-be magicians opened a portal to Muspellheim and let fire demons though? That could be realm-threatening. Or worse, Jotunheim ...

For a moment, the young prince contemplated calling Heimdall to beam him up for counsel with the Allfather, but then decided against it. Whoever had the tesseract now might notice. Better to lay low, not draw attention, and reclaim the thing before harm could be done.

Trying to impress father by bringing back the tesseract all on his own was not part of the decision, he told himself.

Since night had fallen by now, the trickster god took the shape of a bat to exit the building. He'd have to buy or build a villa after all. A minor inconvenience.

He'd have to get in touch with construction companies anyway. The place would not prosper the way it was, with its pothole-riddled streets for draft horses to break their legs and motorcars their axes, and that dysfunctional airport. The railway did not operate at all because of chronic theft of copper cables. But for his plans, he needed money.

So much to do, so little time.

* * *

Earth, Transdacia, Doomheim – Natasha

No way in.

She'd tried everything, even a grappling hook to the roof; all futile. The building had some kind of force field inches from the wall, preventing entry.

Getting so close demanded all her willpower already – apparently there was a second barrier in effect, something rather like hypnosis, redirecting people away and around, pointing their attention elsewhere. Natasha probably would never have checked out the paranormal physics institute had it not been mentioned in the briefing. Some indoor service agents had found it on satellite images, occupying the same place where maps from the 1940s showed a Hydra base.

Something of interest was clearly in there, but Black Widow could not take a look at it. The locals tended to ignore the building; they knew nothing but that nobody could enter, or had since Soviet scientists moved out. Missions with no outcome were frustrating. She hated not having the time for more research, but clearly she was needed back at HQ. Fury would just have to make do with a preliminary report.

Well hidden in the archway of St Martin & the Pauper, she settled for taking some infrared and night vision pictures of the building for later analysis. A bat flew by, a large one. On the infrared monitor, it showed as colder than the buildings it passed by. It vanished in the park opposite, behind the Max Schreck Memorial. Not a second later, a tall, dark-clad man emerged.

* * *

The next day, police would have to investigate a break-in to a grocery, where the shopowner reported garlic, garlic crackers and garlicked salami missing. The sacristan at St Martini, too, noted a window pried open, but since nothing of value was missing, he shrugged and just refilled the holy water basin.


	5. Alliances in the Making

suggested music: "Pit Bull" from the Black Cat White Cat soundtrack

* * *

Midgard, Transdacia, Doomheim

Busy days and weeks followed for the god known as the Liesmith and the Silvertongue. Goran who ran the internet café had a cousin who owned the Pit Bull Bar, the nightclub where those who pulled the strings in this town met to drink, consume outlawed substances (or negotiate trade in them), dance to deafening music with pretty women eager to sleep up, and overall just keep in touch.

A stranger of course stood out at first, in a small town where success meant being well-connected, but the promise of easy money drew them. A word here and there: royal connections, old money, castles, London Stock Exchange – and some of the more gullible took him for a fool easy to milk of his money. Of course it helped that his godly body could handle plum brandy and those powders they sniffed way better than a mortal. Not long, and he was in on many deals.

Midgard's systems of trade and distributing wealth had always fascinated Loki. So unlike Asgard, where the king determined who was allotted what. These days, the mortals even moved away from material assets, like the Dwarves' rare metal coins, and based their currencies on expectations. The trickster god loved the idea. He was positively giddy at the prospect of tampering with interest and exchange rates in the near future.

That aside, it was ridiculous how people threw their money at you if you could convey the impression you already had a lot. Well, they'd have to support his plans and make them work if they ever wanted a single dinar back.

There were those who initially thought they had enough evidence against him to make him their puppet. (Admittedly, his Transdacian passport _was_ fake – an aging single lady in a registry office just came in so handy. But then, she was expendable, if it came to that.) Some of them soon realized he'd gathered evidence about them too.

Loki by now knew Grga in whose packing plant standard Italian zucchini were re-labelled as Greek organic ware. (A difference difficult to understand for an Asgardian. Weren't all of Midgard's vegetables organisms?) Grga was related to Dadan who smuggled cigarettes.

The fishkiller, Vasile, was still in hazardous waste management, a highly lucrative business if you just dumped or buried the stuff somewhere nobody noticed. The city's ordinary waste meanwhile littered parks and empty lots, feeding packs of feral dogs.

Vasile was godfather to one Jaroslav who sold the meat of old plowhorses to a trader in the Netherlands who supplied factories of frozen food with cheap minced 'beef'. (Of course. Who would freeze their food but Frost Giants or other evildoers?)

One Bogumil the Banker handed out small loans to the desperate, his good friend Hans-Günther provided transportation to the rich lands, and their chum Ibrahim's extended family could always come up with an overpriced spare mattress in an unheated shack or basement for professional beggars to whom nobody would rent otherwise.

The editors in charge of the newspaper and the national radio station frequented the bar too. Not so much to catch up on gossip, but to get a feeling what their benefactors would want them to report. Pandering to those in power payed well, kept your rooms un-searched, and your nose intact. Not so different from how Bragi texted his hymns on Thor and Odin either.

Last not least, all politicians of importance seemed to be related to or friends and partners with the business elite as well.

A close-knit community, an intricate web of relations and dependencies. Ruling here like Odin did in Asgard was out of the question. Each company or syndicate had their own hierarchy of course, but the country overall did not. Transdacia was not an absolute monarchy like Asgard.

Discounting the villages with their outhouses and middens, the slums, the garbage and the toxic waste, it more resembled Alfheim, where proud Elven clans would never tolerate a Vanir king raised in Asgard lording over them. Freyr ruled there by providing counsel, knowing everyone, and bringing the right people together to get things done.

Luckily, Loki had spent some time on Alfheim, studying politics and magic at his foster-uncle's court.

* * *

Earth, New Mexico, Area 52

„Shut up, Romanoff! This has top priority. And you reek of garlic."

„Sorry, director. Ethnic food. I had to eat with the locals." she said with a straight face. She'd not reported the bat incident. They'd either laugh at the poor joke, or send her to mental health evaluation.

„Your objections are noted, but we need Transdacia on our side, no matter the cost. If a bit of money is lost to corruption, that's part of the package. Leave the military and development aid to the diplomats. What I need of you is finding out if anyone is siding with Latveria, and eliminate them. Or if that would blow your cover, file an application to have Barton do it."

He glared at Coulson who was sitting opposite. „I still can't believe your pet hero absconded with copies of half our database!"

The agent shrugged, smiling placidly. Some people were irreplaceable and knew it. „Captain America made it clear from the beginning he views _freedom_ as the defining feature of our nation, including freedom from the government spying on the citizens." That awed glint in his eyes. Natasha knew Phil owned a large collection of Captain America fan items from the 1940s, some of them newly signed.

Fury exploded. „I don't care what the icebear fucker thinks of us! We are protecting the planet here! Don't you forget the alien attack on Air Force One! We need those tesseract weapons, and now World War One Mothball runs off with the first drafts. What if they fall into the wrong hands?"

Did Fury tell himself that at night? The weapons program had started over a year ago, thus long before the so-called Thor incident, shortly after someone had found frozen Rogers and the supposed alien artifact at his plane-crash site in Greenland.

„Actually, Sir, we do not have evidence this self-proclaimed 'Thor of Asgard' truly is an alien, and the president got some very good publicity out of the incident: 'brave in the face of danger' and so on. Even the scandal about the 50,000 $ toilet seats on the Helicarrier died down. And Captain Rogers made his opposition to the tesseract program clear from the beginning. He would know what he is talking about, having destroyed Hydra's program back then." Phil defended his hero.

Natasha didn't need to hear the argument, so she took her leave. She had her new instructions and back ticket to Transdacia, as little as she liked them. If she ever found out who had told Rogers that Latveria of all places was a safe haven for SHIELD defectors … But first, she'd sleep off her jet-lag. Tomorrow, before the return trip, she'd hit Puente Antiguo to purchase a cross pendant and a squirt gun.


	6. Australia is not for me, mate

suggested music: "Down Under" by Men at Work

* * *

Midgard, Middlesex, Hill-Fort of Lug

Months later, the brothers met in London. The god of mischief remembered the place fondly from quite a while ago, even though he had lost that bet with Sweyn Forkbeard as to how much money could be pressed out of it. Less fondly from The Spearshaker's time, when it had been an open sewage.

Since then, the town had improved a lot, even though the underground train system with its gloomyness, the endless winding stairways and the deep resounding call to 'mind the gap' reminded him of those castle crypts they kept trying to remodel into hotels for event tourism back in his Transdacia these days.

By rights, Loki should be in Cologne, promoting plum brandy and mouldy cheese ripened in caves at some trade fair, but frankly, that was no job for a god. His assistant could handle that alone. The red-hair was pretty enough to draw attention to their stand, and, judging from her constant smell of garlic, had a genuine interest in food.

Not that anything was wrong with Transdacian food, as he'd found out – if you had some money and knew which lakes were safe to fish in. From fried zander filets through chard pies to apricot-filled dumplings under heaps of cream, not to forget the beer: bitter, appetizing, served ice-cold, so unlike the sticky sweetness of Asgard's mead which the servants served lukewarm from the goat …

Gluttony had always been one of the prince's vices. He now had to go jogging for an hour every day, on top of the usual press-ups and such, to keep in shape, since sparring with mortals the Asgardian way was out of the question. (Well, he _had _earned quite some admiration from that one attempt at 'working out' in the same gym the minister-president and his bodyguards frequented, just by unintentionally pulling apart some of the flimsy apparatuses there.)

In Asgard, he'd burn excess energy with his spellwork, provided he'd eat that much to begin with. As healthy and fully nutritient as Sæhrímnir's meat was, a man could tire of boiled ham with pork chops three meals a day after some centuries. (That bet with the fire demon Logi had been a result of this, the trickster for once being cheated, by an opponent who ate not only the food but the dinnerware along with it. Looking back, he was not sorry.)

All the realms of the immortals had their own respective food sources like everbearing trees, resurrectable animals, milk wells or honey springs. Midgard lacked such reliability, suffering famine with sad regularity, while on the other hand overwhelming travellers from other realms with an abundance of ingredients and flavours. Millennia ago already, the Fair Folk of Alfheim had established portals to the lands of Eire and Alba, to sample exotic delights like leek soup, mint sauce, haggis&neeps, or steak&kidney pie.

* * *

Thor, apparently, had ejoyed the mortals' cuisine as well, but slacked in training. In this short time, he had filled out remarkably, belly matching Volstagg's.

„Well met, Thor!"

„Fandral?!" the god of thunder nearly jumped out of his beer garden chair.

„Don't be silly, oaf, it's me." Loki whispered. Thor would of course be watched, so he had assumed Fandral's face.

He took a seat.

„Brother? Finally; so good to see you! Dispell this stupid glamour! You look thin. Is your country too small to feed a god, then? I swear, not even bilgesnipe to hunt for a nice fat roast?"

Actually, Loki had contemplated introducing bilgesnipe to enrich the fauna of Transdacia, after learning how many deals in politics were struck among hunting companions. Quite like in the other realms, really.

He'd hosted a carp fishing event with the minister-president and some of his in-laws recently. They hadn't been into sport fishing before, preferring trophy hunts for bear, boar, stag and other beast the mortals found impressive, but enjoyed themselves enough by the lakeshore, since the catch could be barbecued on site and consumed right away, with lots of drinks to go with it. That should be some incentive to keep lakes and rivers safe.

The toxic waste disposer had professed he'd be happy to manage a real garbage incinerating plant if only someone else would build it. Loki would need help writing the necessary applications yet, to EU or World Bank or whomever, but he knew where to get help with that. The tourism minister of Simba-Msitu, a charming lady so unlike Heimdall that old statue, had given him invaluable instructions during the Berlin tourism fair.

Already Transdacia was receiving money from environmentalist organizations to protect the Ural Owl and re-introduce the Northern Bald Ibis. (Loki could get the owl. Owls were birds of prey, using the definition loosely, and falconry a noble sport. But whatever was the ibis good for, ugly as it was? No matter, there were jobs to hand out – rangers, stockkeepers, tour guides. In any case, on a planet with unmanaged weather, people had better watch their environment closely, so those organizations probably had some point.)

Back to Thor. Loki had not come to brag or gloat. No, he hadn't. Had. Not. He was here by mere coincidence, since London was where Tony Stark preferred to meet when his partners in a deal (like Loki) could not get a visa for the USA.

(An inconvenience the prince had never faced before in his travels. He understood that from the mortals' point of view admission rules made sense. They had no Heimdall who had watched everyone seeking entry all their lives, able to judge whether they should be let in. But for him, an Odinsson, to be rejected? If those stupid mortals only knew … Or maybe when filling out the forms, under the question „Do you intend to kill the president?", he should not have amended the checked 'no' box with: „That's for my brother to do if he chooses." Of course he could teleport instead of crossing borders, but that was not adviseable when meeting with important people who might do inquiries – or be watched themselves.)

No matter; negotiations in London had gone well. Stark Industries needed a country whith little restrictions to set up a large-scale arc reactor powering a city as a model project. The oil lobby in Mr Stark's homeland would not tolerate that there as he professed, and the EU neither, opposed to new unproven inventions as they were. Loki considered the mechanism safe enough, not altering reality or anything, and had been happy to invite Tony to Transdacia, making plans for energy-intensive industries already. (Mentioning the brandy, girls and night club had helped too, he was quite sure.)

Meeting Thor was just convenient. A man should visit his less successful brother to console him in his misery, right? NOT to gloat. Or maybe just a little.

Loki had kept up with his brother's progress in the press of course: retreat across the Atlantic Ocean, a short stay in Norway, taking residence with their English kin, quite some excitement from hordes of mortals who professed to have known all along they were not alone in the universe.

(Good to know at least _some_ mortals had a firm grip on reality.) A sparring accident had been reported in which Thor had killed a heavyweight boxer – likely the reason he now slacked with training. The best thing was the folder Loki had filled with pictures from tabloids, that showed Thor playing billiard naked with nephew Harry in a gambling hall. He'd be sure to take that back to Asgard. Other than that, Thor had layed remakably low.

* * *

They talked a little about their respective countries, Thor lamenting his subjects' rebelliousness and underhanded fighting methods, as in allying with some green Jotun beast that had gone berserk on him. Hardly believeable. The fool had probably got into father's fly agaric laced mead before departing.

Loki would have loved to boast with his own country's progress. Transdacia had found the most unlikely allies in Thor's chosen country USA, who had some quarrel with Latveria. War was the last thing Loki wanted in his place, but he so welcomed the preparations. Building bases, paving roads, improving the electrical grid – all necessary preparations, funded by those allies, providing thousands of well-paid jobs.

From Loki's own observation, idle hands were the worst that could afflict a country. Craftsmen were always happy to return for dinner with their families, then peacefully go to sleep, after a busy working day. So were the guardsmen with their schedules, or the healers and the servants. In Asgard, it was the warriors who caused the most trouble: young men and the occasional woman from noble families left to their own devices without real duties; drinking, eating and sparring as they chose, quickly bored and easily offended. The more people he could get into contributing work in his Transdacia, the better, the god figured.

Besides, they were siphoning off some of that military money for other projects, like overhauling waterworks and hospitals. Well, for the corrupt elites' cars and houses too, but with the building boom, plots appreciating, at least the wealthy re-invested instead of parking their fortunes abroad. With more affluent customers, even doctors were now slowly trickling back.

Sadly, he could not tell Thor any of this. Being noticed in connection with the stupid oaf would be catastrophic for the the trickster's plans. His transatlantic benefactors would withdraw at once. So he needed to sell himself short and make sure his brother would not deem Transdacia worth a visit.

The tales he spun were hence of thieves and prostitutes returning from abroad, of guardsmen easily bribed to look the other way, and of old laws concerning farm animals and what farmers or their paying guests were allowed to do with them behind closed doors. (Thor always loved such stories, particularly with billy goats topping.) He was getting to the dusty library, which he was sure would drive his brother off. (Though in fact the librarian had a brisk business to the side going on now, selling fake 'ancient tomes' and ikons through the internet.)

„Brother, you must help me!"

Oh good, distraction working. Wait, help? Weren't they in a competition?

„Another!" Thor yelled at the bartender, smashing his empty pint glass on the floor.

„Help you, Thor? Whatever with? Have you not the mightiest country on the planet?" Loki couldn't help but needle.

The barman scurried over with a glass of beer, bowing. Apparently they knew Thor here.

„Did you not listen? They refuse to obey. Now I must conquer my own country. It's an insult, but I shall teach them not to snub an Odinsson again! Look here!"

Thor produced a well-worn map of Midgard and spread it on the sticky table, brushing aside the beerglass to the floor. The barman came running to bring a new one swiftly. He lingered then, picking up the shards.

„Look here: This is my country, the United States." Loki nodded.

„To the north lies Canada, which belongs to Queen Elizabeth." Thor winced. Loki knew why. Having a generations younger niece looking like your grandmother was odd enough, but that was not the reason Thor was uncomfortable with this queen, he'd told him earlier. The very first time the oaf had introduced himself to the family, he'd walked by the ruling queen whose guest he was, to greet prince Charles first, whom he'd then presumed to be the monarch. After all, who would have a ruling queen when there was a grown male heir available to take the crown? They were not on speaking terms since.

„Her forces must march south from there. Now, if we bring in Royal Air Force from above, and the fleet across the sea, ..."

„Tell me you are speaking in jest, Thor." The fool was serious, most certainly. Ouch.

„Know your place, brother! I am no jester like yourself." (That hurt.) Thor hit the table with his fist, sending the newest glass flying. Well, so the serving man had ample opportunity to listen in again. More brew was soon provided.

„The forces you shall send to aid me will then ..."

„Thor? Thor! Listen to me, one moment, please!" Loki needed to act quickly, before the bumbling fool might utter the word 'Transdacia' for anyone to hear. They probably had listening-devices planted too, so killing witnesses would not suffice.

„Thor. You requested from father the mightiest country around by far. And he gave it to you." (Of course. Thor always got what he wanted, be it a pony when he couldn't even ride, a trip to Vanaheim's amusement park, a weapon crafted by the dwarves, …)

„Yes, yes, I know, they won't obey you, but, you know what, Thor? _The mightiest country. _Think about it. Now you are planning to conquer the mightiest from lesser ones. When – I might add – we were instructed not to cause trouble for our relatives."

Not working. Thor was still red in the face.

„I am the Mighty Thor, that will make up the difference!"

Different approach then. „Of course, of course, but Thor – what then, after?"

Ah, good, that shut him up. „Would you want to rule a war-ravaged country? Rebuild their cities, assign workers to the quarries, decide which tasks are the most urgent for the craftsmen to see to? Sit in court day after day holding trial over every single person yet alive who dared defy you? Millions of cases, Thor. And don't forget the trade negotiations if you had to import anything of need."

If there was anything that bored Thor more than listening to lawyering at Thing, it was the trade in goods a prince could take for granted (unless banished for some harmless hair-do prank, earning his keep as an apprentice elsewhere).

The barman brought two pints of beer for them, unasked. Loki cast an anti-poison spell just in case.

„Is it really worth the hassle, Thor? Besides, you will remember Father's words: We are to stay here for only a short while. You might be called back any day to take the throne back home in Asgard. So why concoct complicated long-term plans here? You'd better be ready to go at a moment's notice."

„But how do I prove myself to Father then?"

Was the fool really asking his competitor in this game for advice? Loki resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Unfortunately, he would have to provide a workable solution, just to get his brother off his back.

„Well, all you need is some other land to rule, to show Father that you can. It doesn't really matter which one, does it? Why don't you ask Elizabeth for one of hers? She holds more than one kingdom's crown I've heard. You could just ask to be made regent of some place, reign there, return it good as new – or better yet improved – after a few years? Let's see."

They both bent over the map once more. Loki had of course read up a bit on Midgard's politics in the past months.

„How about this one here, Australia? You see, it's large and quite impressive, a continent of its own, no pesky neighbours to disturb you."

Thor's pensive face gave the trickster hope. „I hear they have some larger deserts. Won't your subjects be delighted if you'll bring them rain?"

(The things Loki could do if he had some of his brother's powers. His own farmers in Transdacia needed to buy weather-forecasts from a company in Switzerland to know when best to harvest, he'd learned recently, and those were not even very accurate: too few local weather stations. Rectifying that would be one of his next projects, right after finding some way to pay teachers properly. Amazing what a ruler needed to consider on this planet …)

Thor still seemed unconvinced. Loki tried again: „I hear Australia has killer-sharks and monster-crocodiles. Those are related to the dragons, from their looks. Won't the people praise you when you will protect them from the beasts? Or if you get bored, you could import some gryphons and manticors to enrich the desert fauna for your hunting pleasure."

Still hesitant. That was unlike his brother, not jumping at a chance to hunt. There was some serious objection here.

„Thor? Brother? What troubles you? You haven't asked Elizabeth for a favour like this before, have you?"

„No, no … Your plan sounds good, but Loki: I cannot rule Australia." Thor's expression was now outright pained.

„Whyever not?" Loki wondered. Oh, of course – it might be Harry's, and they'd drunk together. Sometimes Loki wished their father held more than one kingdom's crown too, and could cede him a lesser one. Not that he wanted to be king. He'd be happy enough with a scholarly career. It was just so that kings got respect. The Warriors Four, everyone and Heimdall bowed without question to king Njörd of Vanaheim, even though the old codger had clearly lost some marbles since discovering Midgardian rum. Rumour had it he had ditched his sister-wife, mermaids and wave nymphs in favour of a female Jotun monster, and relied on an octopus to tell the future.

Thor hummed and hawed but then spilled out what was on his mind in truth: „Frederik's wife is Australian."

Not what Loki expected. „Frederik?"

„The crown prince of Denmark. His wife's name is Mary; she's Australian. They have children, as has crown prince Haakon of Norway, and William Charlesson – grandson of Elizabeth – is a father too. If I ruled Australia, surely they would visit often. Mother would learn, she would, I'm sure, and I'd never hear the end of it: that I should settle down, marry a homely wife – not Sif, that is – give up my freedom and adventures. I'm not old yet. No, Loki, Australia is not for me."

The trickster god was truly baffled for a moment. Thor did not want to marry? Or if anyone, then Sif, that vengeful harpy? How splendid – he could then pursue his burgeoning affair with princess Sigyn some more. Well, provided Angrboda didn't notice. Still, for the time being, he needed Thor safely away.

„Um, Thor, how about you simply call to Heimdall he should port you up, and you request of Father a new assignment?"


End file.
